Joan Haste, H. Rider Haggard [e book reader free .TXT] 📗

went, scanning the heath and the

cliff with eager eyes, in the hope that she might discover the man she

sought. It was in vain; the place was empty and desolate, a home of

solitude.

 

At length she stood upon the border of the cliff road, and the Abbey

was in line with her some two hundred yards to the right. Here she

paused awhile, staring into the shadows and listening earnestly. But

there was nothing to be seen except the varying outlines of the

clouds, and nothing to be heard save the murmur of the sea, the

stirring of the wind among the grasses, and now and again the cry of

some gull seeking its food by night.

 

Now it was, as she stood thus, that a great fear of death took her,

and it seemed as though all her past life went before her in pictures,

full, every one of them, of exact and bewildering detail. For the most

part these pictures were not pleasant, yet it chilled her to remember

that the series might so soon be ended. At the least they were human

and comprehensible, whereas what lay beyond might be inhuman and above

her understanding. Also it came home to her that she was not fit to

die: until her child was taken from her, she had never turned much to

religion, and of late she had thought more of her own cruel

misfortunes and of her lost lover than of her spiritual

responsibilities, of the future welfare of her soul.

 

She was minded to fly; she had escaped from her prison, and no law

could force her to live with a madman. Why should she not go back to

Monk’s Lodge, or to London, to seek a new existence for herself,

leaving these troubles behind her? After all, she was young and

beautiful, and it was sweet to live; and now that she was near to it

the death which once she had so passionately desired seemed a grim,

unfriendly thing.

 

But then there was Henry. He was lost to her, indeed, and the husband

of another woman; yet, if she deserted him now, what would become of

him? His career was before him—a long and happy career—and it was

pitiable to think that within some few minutes he might be lying in

the grass murdered for her sake by a wretched lunatic. And yet, if she

offered herself up for him, what must be the end of it? It would be

that after a period of shock and disturbance his life would fall back

into its natural courses, and, surrounded by the love of wife and

children, he would forget her, or, at the best, remember her at times

with a vague, affectionate regret. No man could spend his days in

mourning continually over a passionate and inconvenient woman, who had

brought him much sorrow and anxiety, even though in the end she

chanced to have given him the best proof possible of her affection, by

laying down her life for his.

 

Well, so let it be. Afraid or not afraid, she would offer what she

had, and the gift must be valued according to its worth in the eyes of

him to whom it was given. Existence was a tangle which she had been

quite unable to loose, and now, although her dread was deep, she was

willing that Death should cut its knot; for here she had no hope, and,

unless it pleased fate that it should be otherwise, to Death she would

consign herself.

 

All these thoughts, and many others, passed through her mind in that

brief minute, while, tossed between love and terror, Joan stood to

search the landscape and recover her breath. Then, with one last

glance over the moorland, she stepped on to the road and began to walk

slowly towards the Abbey. Fifty yards away the three paths met, but

the ground lay so that to reach the Cross-Roads, their junction, and

to see even a little distance along the other two of them, she must

pass the corner of the broken churchyard wall. Dared she do it,

knowing that perchance there her death awaited her? Coward that she

was, while she lingered Henry might be murdered! Even now, perhaps

this very instant, he was passing to his doom by one of the routes

which she could not see.

 

She paused a moment, looking up the main road in the hope that she

might catch sight of Henry advancing down it. But she could perceive

no one; an utter loneliness brooded on the place. Moreover, the moon

at this moment was obscured by a passing cloud. For aught she knew,

the deed was already done—only then she would have heard the shot—or

perhaps Henry had driven to Rosham, or had gone by the beach, or the

fit of homicidal mania had passed from her husband’s mind. Should she

go on, or wait there, or run away? No, she must reach the

Cross-Roads: she would not run; she would play the hand out.

 

Of a sudden a strange excitement or exaltation of mind took possession

of her; her nerves tingled, and the blood drummed in her ears. She

felt like some desperate gambler staking his wealth and reputation on

a throw, and tasted of the gambler’s joy. For a moment, under the

influence of this new mood, the uncertainty of her fate became

delightful to her, and she smiled to think that few have played such a

game as this, of which the issues were the salvation of her lover and

the hazard of her mortal breath.

 

Now she began to act her part, walking forward with a limp like

Henry’s, till she was opposite to and some five yards away from the

angle of the churchyard wall. Here a swift change came over her; the

false excitement passed away, and again she grew mortally afraid. She

could not do it! The Cross-Roads were now not twenty paces from her,

and once there she might see him and save him. But never could she

walk past that wall, knowing that behind it a murderer might be

lurking, that every stone and bush and tuft of grass might hide him

who would send her to a violent and cruel death. It was very well to

make these heroic resolutions at a distance, but when the spot and

moment of their execution were at hand—ah! then the thing was

different! She prayed God that Henry had escaped, or might escape, but

she could not take this way to preserve him. Her mind was willing, but

the poor flesh recoiled from it. She would call aloud to her husband,

and reveal herself to him if he were there. No, for then he would

guess her mission, render her helpless in this way or that—what

chance had she against a madman?—and afterwards do the deed. So it

came to this: she must go back and wait, upon the chance of meeting

Henry on the cliff road, for forward she dared not go.

 

Already she had turned to fly, when her ear caught a sound in the

intense silence—such a sound as might have been made by some beast of

prey dragging itself stealthily towards its victim. Instantly Joan

became paralysed; the extremity of terror deprived her of all use of

her limbs or voice, and so she stood with her back towards the wall.

Now there was a new sound, as of something rising quickly through deep

grass or brushwood, and then she heard the dull noise of the hammer of

a gun falling upon an uncapped nipple. In a flash she interpreted its

meaning: her husband had forgotten to reload that barrel with which he

shot the dog!

 

There was still a chance of life for her, and in this hope Joan’s

vital powers returned. Uttering a great cry, she swung round upon her

heel so swiftly that the hat fell from her head, and the moonlight

passing from the curtain of a cloud, shone upon her ashy face. As she

turned, her eyes fell upon another face, the face of a devil—of

Samuel Rock. He was standing behind the wall, that reached to his

breast, and the gun in his hand was levelled at her. A tongue of flame

shot out, and, in the glare of it, it seemed to her that his

countenance of hellish hate had changed its aspect to one of agony.

Then Joan became aware of a dull shock at her breast, and down she

sank senseless on the roadway.

 

Joan was right. Perceiving her from the Cross-Roads knoll, his place

of outlook, whence, although himself invisible, he commanded a view of

the three paths, Rock, deceived by her disguise and assumed lameness,

into the belief that his wife was Henry advancing by the cliff road,

had crept towards her under shelter of the wall to kill her as she

stood. But in that last moment he learned his error—too late! Yes,

before the deed was done he tasted the agony of knowing that he was

wreaking murder upon the woman he desired, and not upon the man she

loved. Too late! Already his finger had contracted on the trigger, and

the swift springs were at their work. He tried to throw up the gun,

but as the muzzle stirred, the charge left it to bury itself in the

bosom of his wife.

 

Casting down the gun, he sprang over the wall and ran to her. She was

lying on her back, dead as he thought, with opened eyes and arms

thrown wide. Once he looked, then with yells of horror the madman

bounded from her side and rushed away, he knew not whither.

 

When Henry parted with Joan in the Monk’s Lodge summer-house that

morning, anger and bitter resentment were uppermost in his mind,

directed first against his father-in-law, and next against his family,

more particularly his mother. He had been trapped and deluded, and

now, alas! it was too late to right the wrong. Indeed, so far as his

wife was concerned, he could not even speak of it. Joan spoke truly

when she said that Emma must never hear of these iniquities, or learn

that both the name she had borne and the husband whom she loved had

been filched from another woman. Poor girl! at least she was innocent;

it must be his duty to protect her from the consequences of the guilt

of others, and even from a knowledge of it.

 

But Levinger, her father, was not innocent, and towards him he was

under no such obligation. Therefore, sick or well, he would pour out

his wrath upon him, and to his face would call him the knave and liar

that he was.

 

But it was not fated that in this world Mr. Levinger should ever

listen to the reproaches of his son-in-law. When Henry reached the

house he was informed that the sick man had fallen into a restless

sleep, from which he must not be disturbed. Till nine o’clock that

sleep endured, while Henry waited with such patience as he could

command; then suddenly there was a cry and a stir, and the news was

brought to him that, without the slightest warning or premonition of

immediate danger, Mr. Levinger had passed from sleep into death.

 

Sobered and calmed by the shock of such tidings, Henry gave those

orders which were necessary, and then started for home, where he must

break the fact of her father’s death to Emma. He had arranged to

return to Bradmouth by the last train; but it was already gone, so he

drove thither in the dogcart that went to advise Dr. Childs and

others of what had happened, and thence set out to walk to Rosham half

an hour or so later than he